


communication

by civillove



Series: brio prompts from tumblr [25]
Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: F/M, rio is tactile pass it on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-22 11:35:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22882384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/civillove/pseuds/civillove
Summary: prompt request from jamesbvck:"there's things i wanna say to you, but i'll just let you live. like if you hold me without hurting me, you'll be the first who ever did." :)--AKA Rio has trouble communicating but Beth's getting better at seeing right through him.
Relationships: Beth Boland/Rio
Series: brio prompts from tumblr [25]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1496387
Comments: 14
Kudos: 132





	communication

**Author's Note:**

> once again, i'm writing in rio's perspective to try it out? would love feedback if you feel it :3 thank you! enjoy.

Rio crosses the street with a heavy duffle bag in his hands, looking both ways before he stops at his car. Pulling open the driver side door, he throws the duffle into the back seat and settles in, leaning his head back against the leather for a few moments.

A headache is pinching its way along his temple and he has to bite on the tip of his tongue for a few moments to center himself. He’s in a terrible mood—which just tells him he should cancel this meeting he’s about to go to, but business doesn’t stop just because he doesn’t want to deal with things.

Despite the way he’s been presentin’ himself lately, calm and collected and organized, his meetings have been anything but.

_Somethin’ in the water;_ he rolls his eyes, starting his car to drive off to his next location. He glances at his hands on the wheel, at his knuckles, at the shine of the ring on his pinky finger and lets out a slow controlled breath through his nose.

He wishes he was goin’ home. Irritation flares in his veins, heating up the back of his neck as he thinks about how this meeting was supposed to happen earlier in the week but ‘somethin’ came up’ as it usually does. Rio understands that there’s bound to be roadblocks, that other lives are weaving into the one they’re setting up for themselves—but it’s becoming more consistent and _that’s_ what’s botherin’ him.

How are they supposed to get shit done if they never meet to discuss anythin’?

He almost misses a stop sign and slams on his breaks, swearing as the seatbelt digs into his waist. The duffle bag slides off the seat in the back and tumbles onto the floor; luckily it’s zipped. When he steps on the gas, his phone begins to vibrate in his pocket and he slips himself up so he can grab onto it.

“What?”

Elizabeth’s patient breath greets him and he can tell that she doesn’t like the way he answered the phone but he bites his tongue on sayin’ _tough shit._ “How far away are you?”

Rio glances up at the side streets, “About ten minutes. Are you cancelin’ again?”

There’s the patter of running feet and glasses clinkin’—she’s probably cleaning up dinner, getting the kids to bed. Or better, her dumbass husband is takin’ them with him to his hotel room for the night.

“That’s not fair, Kenny was sick.” He shifts in his seat but says nothin’; they both know he’d cancel too if Marcus wasn’t feeling well. But he won’t admit that to her, lets her carry the blame for both of them.

He’s got too much as it is.

“Are we still on or nah.” He presses and it’s not formed as a question, his voice dry and tone flat.

“We’re still on if your attitude miraculously changes by the time you show up.”

Rio rolls his eyes, “Sure thing, boss.” And ends the call before she can get another word in and puts his phone down in one of the cup holders.

Marcus’s picture is his wallpaper—he’s playin’ soccer at the park; he remembers how hot that day was, the taste of ice cream on his tongue that they devoured afterwards. His mother has the same wallpaper, he can see it as clear as day play back in his mind’s eye the last time he saw her.

He’s gotta change it when he stops the car; bein’ sentimental on the job is dangerous. That’s what he keeps telling Beth and he’s gotta practice the words that he’s tryin’ to teach her.

Being emotional just gets you killed.

Rio pulls up across the street from her house, glancing out the window to see a car in the driveway. Dean’s still there, the front door wide open as he tries to gather up the kids to take with him. His fingers itch for a cigarette and he manages to dig one out and slips the canister between his lips.

He plays with his lighter for a few moments, his thumb brushin’ over the switch before he lights up. He can see Beth’s face for a second as he takes a drag, can picture her scrunchin’ her nose at the smell—she hates it and he _knows_ she hates it, and it almost makes the corners of his lips pull up into a smile.

Almost.

Rio holds the smoke in his lungs before he lets it out slowly, his eyes fluttering over the chaos of the Boland household as Dean leaves. The orange ember glow of his cigarette illuminates his dashboard for a fleeting instant before its dark again. He waits until the car is down the street before he gets out, grabbing the duffle bag from the backseat.

He pauses a moment, tapping the end of his cigarette before looking at the bottom of the bag—there’s blood on the corner. He sighs, moving to his trunk to switch the bags because he does _not_ want to hear a twenty minute ‘q and a’ about what he was doin’ before he showed up here.

He’s close to losin’ his patience already, he doesn’t need any help.

This isn't the first or last time he's seen death unfold right in front of him, most of time at his own hands. A lot of people scrambin' for the top won't do their own dirty work.

Rio does.

He gets things done; blood has been on his hands so long that it's become part of his skin tone, in his pores, stuck under his nails. In his opinion, you can't be on top if you're not willin' to dig under the dirt, to live in it, for it to become a part of you.

So many fuckin' amateurs.

But sometimes? It doesn't make it any easier. Sometimes he has trouble comin' home to his son—so he just doesn't. He stays away for periods of a time, because Marcus is _good_ and the last thing he wants to do is taint that. He won't do what's been done to him, not ever.

He zips up the new duffle bag and throws it over his shoulder, dropping the cigarette along the way. He crosses the street, purposely walking through the manicured lawn to get to her front door.

Amusement dances along his lower lip; he’s pretty sure he’s never used this entrance to her house. He presses his thumb into the doorbell and waits.

_I know it's lonely at the top_. He can still feel those words on his tongue, how it's second nature to say them, how he's pushed people away to make it a reality. Because he has to. No one needs to be down in the dirt with him—

Rio looks up as Elizabeth opens the door.

—not unless they want to be.

“Look at you using the front door like a normal person,” She waits for him to cross the threshold and closes it after him.

“Didn’t even know you had a front of the house,” Rio quips, lookin’ around like he’s never seen her place before.

It’s somehow always a mess but he bites his tongue on sayin’ that, his hands trembling a little because he wants to organize. He thinks about the clean lines and effort he’s put into keeping his place orderly, like it’s the one thing he can count on to remain the same.

“Sorry, my kids are little tornados.” Beth says, seeming to sense his uneasiness, drawing him to his left near the dinin’ room. “We can talk in here.”

Rio nods his head before dropping the duffle bag onto the coffee table in front of the couch, slipping his hoodie off. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck and it takes him a moment to realize that Beth didn’t follow.

She’s in the kitchen messin’ around with what sounds like mugs and he has to physically bite his tongue before somethin’ nasty slips out about how he wants to get started. But she brings coffee in and when she hands him a mug, he can smell bourbon—so he clenches his jaw and chews on his words instead.

Beth slips down beside him on the couch, a floral perfume wafting to his nose—mix of peonies and roses or somethin’ like that. It matches the flowered blouse she has on, the buttons nearly undone past her collarbone and he corrects his focus before she’s got a chance to scold him.

“Is this—” She reaches past him and fingers the zipper on the bag.

Rio licks his lips and takes a slow sip of coffee, the alcohol burnin’ the back of his throat. “It’s about half. Your half, since you couldn’t get it done.” And yeah, maybe that’s unfair, but lately he’s been feelin’ like a one-man team. She either wants to be partners or not.

Elizabeth lets the zipper fall from her grasp like it’s somehow burned her. Her other hand clenches around the mug, “So it’s going to be like that tonight?”

“Like what?”

“Like you being passive aggressive because I couldn’t get a task done.” She turns a little to face him, flipping her strawberry blonde hair over her shoulder.

“I’m not bein’ passive aggressive,” Irritation blooms over his skin, bringing heat that settles in his chest.

“Aggressive aggressive,” She amends along the rim of her cup, lips resting there as she speaks.

“Why don’t you—” There’s definitely a snap there, somethin’ harsh like barbed wire wrapping around his words. He lets out a short breath and tries to start over, “We got another half to collect. You gonna step up or am I gonna have to do that myself too?”

He’s aware that he’s very purposely comin’ across like a dick and that most of this is still new to her. That’s part of his job, what he agreed to when they decided to work together, to teach her what it’s supposed to be like.

She can’t become him in one night and, distantly, he hopes she _never_ becomes him.

There’s somethin’ bubbling underneath his skin that won’t let him rest, that he can’t bury, he’s bothered in a way he rarely is. It’s a bad combination of events sitting at the bottom of his ribcage—he had to work with someone else because she was busy, that person got killed, it’s on him, Marcus is his wallpaper and he shouldn’t be, he’s at her place when they should have had this meeting already, he’s tired, he’s got a headache, his hands are tremblin’ again.

And her eyes are digging under his skin; she’s tryin’ to read him. That doesn’t sit well with him either; he’s not under a fucking microscope.

Beth straightens her shoulders and she sets her mug down to reach for the duffle bag—she’s mad at him, he can tell by the way she’s holdin’ her posture. He leans further into the back of the couch, the fabric scratchin’ his bare arms thanks to taking his hoodie off and leaving him in a t-shirt. He watches her carefully, tries to read the lines looping in her head before she says them.

“Did something happen tonight?”

She’s getting better at seein’ past the walls he attempts to put up, just through practice alone. When they first met, he could tell that she couldn’t figure him out but it’s becomin’ more difficult to keep up the separation between them.

“You mean, other than me doin’ the bulk of our work? No.” Rio takes another sip of the coffee-bourbon mixture, wishin’ for a moment it was hotter to burn his tongue.

She’s not allowing him to bait her into a fight and instead focuses on the task at hand; opening the bag and looking inside, pulling out wads of rubber-banded cash—

“We’re short.”

He blinks; _you got to be fuckin’ kidding me._ All that, _all of that_ and he didn’t check the _fucking bag?_ “How short?”

Beth looks away from him, her fingers dropping the cash back into the bag. She’s hesitating, not wanting to tell him, and he can feel himself start to vibrate with anger at himself for not doing the one thing he’s managed to teach her—

You always count the cash before leaving a meeting.

“It’s not a big deal, we can track down Raoul—”

“How. Short.” Rio grabs the bag from her, his fingers tightening around the mug in his hand to the point that he swears he hears the ceramic crumblin’. He looks in the bag and rifles around like that’ll solve the missing cash.

“I think about twenty grand, I didn’t—”

He interrupts by puttin’ the mug down on the coffee table, the sound of the glass nearly cracking. He would be standing to grab his hoodie but Beth’s hand comes down on the crease of his elbow, squeezing.

“Don’t.” Rio attempts to wrench his arm free but she’s got a pretty good hold, “It’s not worth it. We can figure it out.”

_We;_ the word flutters around his nerve endings and settles like a feather, but it’s enough to make the boiling anger he’s been feelin’ for the past hour explosive— “We? Nah, you got that wrong ma. There ain’t no ‘we’—I’ve been doin’ half this shit on my own anyways so maybe it’s better we drop this so called ‘partnership’.”

Elizabeth drops his arm at that comment and he can tell he’s struck a set of her own nerves with his words, little blades diggin’ in. He’s hurt her but his blood is singing in his ears like a high-pitched whine and his chest is heaving a little as he struggles to keep still.

She sets her hand on her lap and considers him for a few moments, putting the mug down, her expression gentle—a look he doesn’t want to see nor deserves.

“Are you going to tell me what’s bothering you or are you just gonna keep pushing me away.”

Rio stares at her for a long second until he can feel his pulse return to normal in his neck, licking his lips as he looks down at the bag still at their feet. “I don't need you to hold my hand. You wanna do somethin’? How bout the job that you signed up for? You wanted this so act like it.”

He thinks that’s the end of it, that she’s about to kick him out or say words equally brutal back—that he can gather his hoodie and go hunt Raoul down for the twenty-or so grand that they’re still owed. That he can get blood on his hands again, like pullin’ on gloves, and that it’ll somehow ground him because _that_ at least is somethin’ he understands.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she zips up the bag at their feet and puts her hand on his knee. Before he can figure out what she’s doing, Elizabeth leans forward and wraps her arms around his shoulders. Rio feels himself go completely rigid, suddenly engulfed in her scent, her warmth, her hair tickling his nose.

She doesn’t let go and he doesn’t pull away because it feels like cement has somehow replaced his bones.

Her breathing is calm and even against his chest, her fingers working their way down his spine and up again to rub at the back of his neck. He feels her touch settle on the back of his arms, thumbing at his block tattoos, like she’s paintin’ them. And then—like a switch, Rio feels his body give way to her.

He relaxes; bone by bone, nerve by nerve. He feels his lungs let out one slow breath, an affirmative noise slipping out of Beth’s mouth against the shell of his ear. His hands move on their own accord and grip at her waist, but he doesn’t completely embrace her.

Beth eventually leans back, his gaze not meeting hers immediately. When he does, she’s scrunchin’ her nose, “You have to stop smoking.”

A sudden laugh stumbles out of his throat and he rolls his shoulders back, shakin’ his head. “Yeah,” He says, voice rougher than he remembers. “I know.”

Her hand hasn’t left his shoulder and her fingers are grazing along the side of his neck, thumb over the wings of his bird tattoo. She’s close enough that he can breathe her in, and he does, before pickin’ the bag up off the floor.

Elizabeth watches him stand and put his hoodie on, zipping it up to his throat. “Are you…?” She trails off, an unasked question hangin’ in the air but he can see the letters.

“Nah, I’m goin’ home.” He promises; there’s no need for him to go after Raoul tonight. He can find him, he knows where he holds up. They’ll take care of it. “Tomorrow.” He says, by way of invitation and she nods.

“Of course.”

Rio pauses for a moment, caught between a thought and then leans down to press a soft kiss against her cheek.

“Tomorrow.” She agrees, with a soft smile.

He tips her chin with his fingers and he pulls back, pullin’ his hood up to rest on the crown of his head as he leaves through the front door. He doesn’t take the duffle bag with him, she’ll count it and keep it for them as she usually does.

They’ll figure everythin’ else out tomorrow.

Together.

**Author's Note:**

> always taking brio requests on tumblr: blainesebastian.tumblr.com/ask  
> thanks for reading!


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